


Destroyer

by autopsyblue



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Blood, Character Study, Derse (Homestuck), Gen, Gore, HB’s Head, Prince of Heart God Tier, be warned, like a lot of blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2019-03-07 12:39:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13434912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autopsyblue/pseuds/autopsyblue
Summary: Hurting yourself is easy





	Destroyer

**Author's Note:**

> You can't say I didn't try  
> I tried, I tried to save so many lives  
> I guess my heart got carried away  
> I guess the dark turned off the light
> 
> “Destroyer”-Phantogram

You're floating over Derse, the huge bulge of the carapice's head dripping steadily onto the streets below. The central dias is in sight, just ahead on the huge boulevard below, the colonade bulging out and around. There's a small pain in your chest, like something's pressing there, tight and stifling, but it doesn't worry you. The carapice's head is suprisingly soft, firm and leathery like a drum but bending at the press of your fingers. You shift your grip on the head as you descend and it shifts, sagging slightly. It starts to leak more, the steady drip of blood rising to a steady gush, painting a red line on the street that leads straight to the platform.

The Dersites stop a good distance away from you, out of arm's reach but not quite out of your range. Not that they could know that. They shuffle and whisper to each other, creating a small roar of tiny, gravely voices, but none of them touch each other, all of them staring at you even as they whisper to each other, tiny blank faces and tiny black eyes, all equally luminous in the disquieting, radiating, ever-present light of Derse. The stream of blood splutters audibly and picks up again, soaking into your purple slippers, and the head starts slipping again, almost as if it's sagging under the pressure of your arm. You pull it back up against you, the warm flesh bending against your side.

The banner pole's weight is so unlike a sword. You jab it into the ground anyway, and raise the head above you, sending the stream of blood down in front of your eyes. Your audience gasps. Your hands shake suddenly, both of them skinking more and more into the flesh of the head as it bends under the fractional gravity of this false planet. You bring the head down on the spike hard enough that it simply slides on.

Blood erupts from the top, flecking your face and shoulders and spraying onto your pants. The carapice's face is gone. The black of his skin is gone. All that remains is a tangled mess of veins and arteries, a rat's nest of human blood vessels, wrapped around something in the center that is still pulsing rhythmically, pumping a fountain of blood into the air. The blood vesels severed by your shove begin to fall away from the top, revealing snippets of the smooth, red organ in the center still pulsing out two beats and a rest. You look down at your chest and see it open, clothes and skin hanging from your chest in ribbons, your upper ribs bent outwards, still held to your chest by muscle and sinew, and the darkness of the hollow in the top left side of your chest, the severed veins and arteries poking out of your chest like wires, leaking a wave down your chest that pools steadily at your feet.


End file.
